Wednesday, June 27, 2012

columbo

James
meets us at the door, phone still in his hand. He has a glassy look to him, as
if everything – the house, the phone conversation, the ambulance crew bustling
in through the door – as if all these things had broken together and cast him
head first into a nightmare. He lowers the phone without ringing off; Rae
gently takes it from him and tells Control we’ve arrived.

‘Upstairs?’

‘I
thought he was out,’ says James, pushing his fingers back through his hair and
staring at us as we pass. ‘His door was shut. I thought he was out.’

We
hurry up the stairs on to a landing where only one door is open. Inside, a man
is lying spread-eagled on his back on the bed by the window. Even from here you
can tell he is dead. There is a puce tide line of pooled blood along the lower
aspect of either arm, and a clump of dried brown vomitus set in his mouth, like
he’d fallen asleep chewing a dirty sponge. We give the scene a brief recce,
looking for anything that might hint at the cause – a scattering of pill
packets, a syringe or a bottle of alcohol – but nothing seems amiss. There is a
jacket and a rucksack tossed on an armchair, a mobile phone and a bunch of keys
on the dresser by the telly.

‘It
looks like he came in, took off his stuff, threw himself back on the bed and
just died.’

‘He
must have passed out for some reason, aspirated and choked to death.’

We
head back down stairs. James is waiting for us at the door to the lounge.

‘I’m
afraid Rick has died,’ I tell him.

‘Oh
God,’ he says. ‘Died? Oh God.’

He
stuffs both hands into his jeans pockets, then almost immediately takes them
out and folds his arms, like an actor suddenly overcome with
self-consciousness. ‘Jesus. I just thought he was out.’

‘Can
we get you anything? A glass of water? Cup of tea?’

‘No.
Thanks. I’m good. Do you mind if I smoke? Jesus. I was here all day.’ He stares
at us. ‘I thought he was out.’

‘You’d
have no reason to think otherwise.’

‘I
mean – I’ve been here all day. With Rick – I mean - Jesus!’

He
turns back into the living room, a scruffy but comfortable house-share set up,
with piles of DVDs by the TV, throws on the sofas, a blanket chest with remote
controls, an empty two litre bottle of coke and a glass ashtray overflowing
with stubs.

‘So
when was the last time you saw Rick alive?’

‘Last
night. Well – I didn’t see him. I
heard him – come back from the pub. About one.’

‘Anyone
with him?’

‘No.
He was on his own. Then when I got up about midday, I went to the bathroom, saw
his door was shut and thought he’d gone to work.’

‘Had
he complained of feeling unwell at all that day?’

‘No.
Far as I know.’

‘Is
there anything in his past medical history? You know – heart problems,
breathing problems, that kind of thing?’

‘Nothing.
He was pretty fit. Oh Jesus – I should ring his parents.’

‘Don’t
worry about that just for the moment, James. The police are on their way and
they’ll help you through that part of things. Just take a few minutes to get
over the shock of all this, we’ll get down what information we can, and when
the police arrive we’ll take it from there. And don’t worry about them coming.
It’s purely routine. Anytime there’s an unexpected death at home, they have to
attend.’

‘Okay.’

He
rolls himself a cigarette. When he lights it, there’s so little tobacco in the
paper it flares wildly.

*

A
Sergeant and another officer come up the path. I meet them at the door and tell
them what we found so far. The Sergeant goes in to the front room to introduce
himself to James and explain what happens next. The other hangs around in the
hallway with us for a moment.

‘This
is beyond a joke,’ he says, rubbing his face. ‘Third today.’

‘Third?’

‘Yep.
Don’t touch me. You’ll drop down dead on the spot.’

The
Sergeant comes out and smiles at us.

‘Lead
on,’ he says.

We
take them up the stairs into Jack’s bedroom.

‘How
long do you think?’ says the Sergeant, leaning over the body.

‘A
few hours,’ I tell him. ‘I imagine he died pretty soon after coming home from
the pub.’

The
Sergeant straightens up.

‘And
nothing suspicious, you say.’

‘Nope.
Nothing I could see.’

‘What
about this whacking great bruise in the centre of his forehead, then?’

‘Whacking
great bruise? What whacking great bruise?’

He
stands aside and I lean over to look. And it’s true – right in the centre of
Jack’s forehead is a flat, circular discolouration the diameter of a teacup.

‘Oh.’

The
Sergeant turns to his subordinate.

‘Get
on the blower and tell them we’ve got a sus death, so we’ll need a DI, SOC and
the Coroner's Officer. Yeah?’ He turns back to me.

‘And
you didn’t touch anything? Move the body? Crack the window, that kind of thing?’

‘Nope.
It’s all as was. I can’t believe I missed that mark on his forehead, though!’

‘It’s
okay,’ says the Sergeant. ‘Sometimes I think the more obvious it is, the more
likely you are to miss it.’

We
head back downstairs. The Sergeant puts us in the kitchen.

‘I’m
afraid I can’t let you go until you’ve spoken to the rest of the team,’ he
says. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Yep.
Fine.’

Rae
leans back against the kitchen counter. I finish off the paperwork, squeezing
in the detail of the bruise, horribly conscious that anyone with a brain could
tell it was an after-thought.

*

‘There’s
no way that head injury could account for his death,’ I tell Rae, as a number
of heavy feet clump about upstairs, a sequence of progressively important people
arrive at the front door and are shown up. ‘No way. I reckon he was a bit pissed
from the pub, stumbled and clonked his head against the wall, lay down on the
bed for a moment, passed out, aspirated.’

‘Could
be.’

‘I
can’t believe I missed it, though.’

There
is another knock on the door. I wait for someone to come down and get it, but
probably because they’re all too busy to hear, no-one does. On the second knock
I go into the hallway and open the door.

Standing
there is a stooped, unshaven man in a checked shirt and jeans with what looks
like a lunchbox on a strap slung over his shoulder. For a moment I wonder if he’s
a relative, an electrician, or maybe the landlord. I’m just about to explain the
situation and why he might want to come back later, when he raises his eyebrows
and nods.

‘Coroner's Officer,’
he says. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Oh.
Of course. Hi,’ I say. ‘They’re all upstairs.’

‘Lovely.’

He
strolls up. After a second or two I hear mutual greetings, a loose and friendly
sound, like a bunch of commuters meeting up in their usual carriage for the
ride in to work.

‘Something to do with the Coroner,’ I say to Rae. She yawns, and hugs herself.

‘I
wonder if they’ll be taking our boots and uniform,’ she says. ‘That’d be good
for another couple of hours, at least.’

*

Eventually
the Coroner's Officer comes back down into the kitchen and leans against the counter with
us. He smiles, folds his arms and looks down at his shoes.

‘How
are you doing?’ he says.

‘Not
bad. You?’

‘Good.
I’m good,’ he says. ‘So – what do you think? You found the body, is that right?’

‘Yes
– and I’m so embarrassed. I can’t think how I missed that bruise.’

He shrugs. ‘Easily done,’ he says. ‘Well, now. Technically all this counts
as unexplained, but I’m guessing our chap bished his head on something when he
was coming back from the pub – not in any big way. He lies down, passes out and
aspirates. That’s what it looks like. He has an interesting bruise between his
thumb and index finger – here – not something you see all that often, but probably
where he puts his hand when he falls – like this – a guarding injury, do you
see? We’ll establish all this later. For now, I think you chaps are free to go.
I imagine we’ve got all your details. The paperwork and such.’

I
hand him copies.

‘That’s
great. Thank you so much for all you’ve done. I hope the rest of your shift is –
less eventful.’

We
shake his hand, pick up our bags and head outside.

Just
as we reach the door I half expect him to say Just one more thing, but when I turn to look he simply waves
goodbye, and then quietly turns and walks back up the stairs.

7 comments:

Are you the sort that when buying only one item in the supermarket, walks around with it held ostentatiously away from bag and pockets in case someone thinks you're nicking?

I'm afraid I'll be a James one day. My flatmate has heaps of health problems and he's massively overweight/unfit. I'll be glad of Columbo turning up if that happens, I don't have a clue how you sort things out. Of course the way things are going it might be G4S turning up and handing me a bill instead.

The other day I was in a charity shop. I bought a book, and when she asked me if I wanted a bag I said 'Yes please' - but only because I was going into another charity shop down the road and I didn't want them thinking I'd lifted it. *blush*

I think if anything ever happens to your flatmate just dial 999 and ask for whoever. They're all of them used to it. And if it's me that turns up, you'll know you're safe (I'll be the one charged with Murder One, whatever that is...)